For Every Rose of White
by Rachael torie b
Summary: They say we are the ones who destroy ourselves in the end. Maybe that's true; maybe it isn't, but one thing is: destruction breeds destruction. AU, Evil/Templar Connor, EvieXConnor
1. Snow Angel

A/N: Hello all, I'm back—did you miss me? I'm terribly sorry about the absence from this wonderful site for so long, as the break was not planned. Alas, I've returned and I'm trying something a little different this time.

Pairing: Evie Frye/Connor Kenway

Warnings: AU fanfiction, dark!Connor (I'm serious, he is not a good person in this story), character purposefully OOC, this is going to get deep and dark people; I'm not even kidding.

Song I listened to while writing this: Nightmares By The Sea by Jeff Buckley.

The darkness crept onto the sky, swallowing the last remnants of the purple, pink, and red hues of sunset. With it, the chill grew sharper, and Connor pulled the robes tighter about himself. Though his breath fogged plainly in the twilight, the cold did little to bother him. It was getting to her though.

Connor had been tracking, losing, and then re-tracking her for the better half of two days. Her determination made him smile, and he certainly admired her resilience. A lesser woman would have collapsed due to the frigid conditions alone, not even considering the injuries he'd gifted her during their last altercation, but no; not her.

He bit his lip as he watched her shiver by her small campfire, her lips pale, almost blue, and her small blanket clad shoulders shaking. Her dark hair was slipping chaotically from its signature braided up do, and he could still see the colorful bruises marring the left side of her face. He felt a twinge of annoyance upon seeing the blemish, as he was the one that had put it there not a week ago. Even then, with what he had done, her beauty was still uncanny. It was almost unfair, how lovely she was, resting there like a fallen goddess, like a Snow Angel.

He decided to wait—good things come to those who wait, after all—and settled back into the rough bark of his tree. When the darkness fell completely, when her guard fell completely, then he would go and retrieve his lovely little Assassin. He might even make it interesting, as things usually were when they concerned her. He knew daddy dearest hated it when he prolonged the mission, but sometimes Connor liked to play with his food before he ate it. He blamed his violent upbringing for that.

The flames licked at her frozen fingers with delicious vigor. Evie knew, somewhere in the part of her mind that wasn't clouded by painful frost, that having a fire at night, even a small one, was dreadfully stupid. It could be spotted from a distance and it may attract predators, if it hadn't already. She couldn't help herself though, rationalizing her actions as thus: she was more valuable as an alive Assassin than a dead one, and if she didn't have warmth she would surely perish of hypothermia. Her knowledge of Eden, and the realizations her last mission brought to light concerning the pieces, would not be lost to the oblivion of death, not if Evie had anything to do with it. She would deliver the information to the Brotherhood. She would.

A long, high pitched howl emanated from the dark barren trees surrounding her, and Evie couldn't help but think the noise was one of the loneliest she'd ever heard. The wolf called out again, and no howls answered it in return, the sound rising and falling in a haunting melody, a song it sang all alone.

On instinct, Evie clutched her blade's hilt tightly. A lone wolf she did not fear, but the possibility a winter-ridden, meat-deprived pack could be nearby seemed to loom on the horizon. Every move she took reminded her of her ill-healed injuries, and she dreaded to think of how she would fare against a gang of starving, feral beasts. Evie morbidly hoped they would be as weak as she.

All she had to do was survive long enough to reach the Davenport Homestead. First though, Evie thought slowly, bleakly, she might rest. Part of her, the functioning part, screamed no no no no—stay awake. But the other part, the exhausted, complacent part, was larger, and it won by majority vote. Already dazed, Evie slumped over slowly onto the frigid ground, her coarse blue blanket wrapped haphazardly around her torso and hips.

The cold seeped into her as if she were connected to it, all the way to her bones. Luckily, Evie didn't feel much of anything at this point, and decided to slip deeper into the comfortable numbness. She couldn't remember why she hadn't wanted to close her eyes earlier anyway; sleep now seemed like the most attractive option. She could always go to the Homestead in the morning after all, when it was warmer and easier to see her surroundings.

She closed her eyes. She heard the lonesome wolf howl once again. She heard the wind whipping about her head. She felt something nudge her side roughly. Her eyes shot open.

Above her towered a smiling man, except his smile was not mirthful but rather menacing, and in his hand he held a sharp tomahawk, gleaming with the color from her fire. He was not just a man. He was Connor Kenway, son of the Grand-Master of the Templars, and he was the one who had almost beat her to a pulp not five days ago. The ribs he'd fractured ached from the mere memory.

"You!" she spat, springing to her feet, dizziness stabbing through her.

"Me." He smirked slowly, narrowly escaping the long, serrated edge of her dagger, the point slashing through the air where his throat had been.

Evie cursed, realizing she was at a clear disadvantage. Connor took a step back, and although he slipped into an easy fighting stance, she could tell by the lazy grin he bore he was acutely aware of that fact as well.

Quickstepping, Evie unsheathed her other dagger, and in rapid succession she slashed at the Templar: his face, throat, chest, abdomen. In turn, he blocked and dodged every blow and swipe with lithe, trained movements—well, almost every blow. While she lashed out at his stomach with her left dagger, she swung forward toward his face with her right one, the sharp point catching the innermost edge of his eyebrow. She slashed deeper and whipped it backwards, the skin above his eye ripping like soft cloth. Blood wept from the laceration, pouring into his vision.

Leaping back once more, Connor pressed a sleeve to his wound, wiping the red away so he could see. Almost in the same movement, too fast for her to register, he knocked Evie's legs out from under her. Wasting no time, he positioned himself on top of her, his hidden blade poised threateningly at her throat. It was cold, resting lightly, yet so very heavily, on her flesh.

He grinned wickedly, white teeth flashing. Blood still flowed down his face, running through his left eye like crimson tears. The dark droplets fell onto Evie's chest, staining her robes.

With a rough hand, he grasped her jaw, forcing her face away from him. Evie clenched her teeth and bit her tongue, heart pounding frantically against her ribcage, the harsh ground biting into her back. Wincing, she felt him run his cool gloved fingers over the large tender bruise situated on her cheekbone, and then, slowly, he brought his own cheek to the sore area, nuzzling his bloodied face to her bruised one. She could feel it clinging to her skin even after he pulled away, leaving behind a sickening warmth.

"You are lucky I'm not feeling vindictive, or I might try to even the score," with his free hand, he dabbed at his eye, smearing the blood even more. Smirking lazily, he pressed his blade into her neck more deeply, making a small cut to her throat, "I'm rather fond of that face, but there other, less important things we can carve up, aren't there?"

"Go to hell, Kenway."

Connor sighed contentedly, dragging his thumb across Evie's bottom lip. Leaning down, they were nose to nose.

"I fully intend to, and," he said, whispering, "I'm taking you with me."

He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, blade cutting her throat; hand pulling her hair. Evie struggled, trying to turn away from him, but Connor held her firmly in place until they both dearly needed air.

Gasping, she spat off to the side, shuddering, seething, and shaking with pure rage. Grinning, Connor removed his weapon from the torn skin of her neck and grasped her shoulder, pulling her up with him. She stumbled as he yanked her arm behind her and twisted it at a painful angle. It hurt little compared to her wounded pride as he marched her out of the clearing through the banked snow. Evie was so angry, so livid, she couldn't utter a word, but instead think only of a whirl of violence. She wasn't cold anymore; she wasn't even tired. She was positively murderous.


	2. Visiting Hours

The warmth spread throughout his body, lingering in all the right places. Connor couldn't help himself; didn't even want to. The moment he felt her skin against his, the moment he kissed her—they replayed over and over in his mind.

She was so angry; it had radiated from her, hotter than any fire. What wouldn't he give to experience that again. He couldn't imagine anything would feel any better.

Except for one thing.

"Connor."

He remembered what her hair smelled like: fresh air and jasmine.

"Connor."

He remembered what her skin felt like: silk and velvet. What, oh what, wouldn't he give to wrap himself in it. He wondered, darkly, if—

"Connor!"

Haytham materialized before him, but Connor supposed he had probably been standing there for a while.

"Yes?" inquired Connor innocently.

"I've been calling your name for over a minute. Do stop squandering my time, boy, and tell me of the Assassin."

At that, Connor's heart began to beat more quickly, and he could hear the blood rushing madly in his ears. Typically, he, and any other Templar, would love the chance to brag to the Grand-Master about taking down one of the Brotherhood's best, but he found himself wanting to tell his father absolutely nothing.

"I retrieved her. All is well."

Haytham arched a brow. "And that is all? No complications?"

Connor did not like his tone of voice. "Yes."

His face turning to one of passive disinterest, Haytham began to walk away, marching down the dimly lit corridor with great stride.

"You may want to acquire stitches for your wound, but you can see to it yourself, as there were no 'complications' with the mission."

He had forgotten about the injury. Touching it gently, Connor's fingers came away with ruddy stains still. Smiling, he wiped the red on his robes, the black smothering the crimson. He would not stitch it. He would let it bleed, and he would remember.

He was going to see her again soon, and he wanted her to remember too.

* * *

There were no windows. There was no light, no light except for the flickering candles resting precariously in their emblazoned bronze sconces adorning the walls across from her cell. Evie watched them dance with idle interest, reclining on her cot. The flames would rise, chasing away the shadows, but then the light would wane again, and the darkness crept in to swallow it.

They had put her there early that morning, before the sun had even risen. Estimating, Evie assumed she'd been captive for nearly four hours. She'd already combed the entire cell for chinks, flaws, and architectural failures. Disappointingly, she had found none.

From the corridor that led to the stairs, Evie began to hear the sharp clicks of boots on stone. Rising from the cot, she went to the bars, peering between them in the direction of the footsteps. Before she saw them, she saw their shadows, long and dark, stretching against the stone walls. With a stab of fresh anger, Evie recognized her visitors immediately.

"Hello, Miss Frye. I trust you've had a pleasant morning?"

Evie narrowed her eyes at the Grand-Master, fingers curling around the cold iron bars. She said nothing, and avoided looking behind Haytham where He stood, leaning back against the wall.

Clasping his hands behind his back, the older Templar appeared quite pleased. "Ah, well, not in the mood for chitchat, are we?" The smile fell from his face, "Good. Neither are we. Tell me, Miss Frye, where were you going when my son apprehended you."

Connor, ever the faithful shadow, stepped forward. "She was going to the Davenport residence—"

Holding up a hand, Haytham quieted him. "No, Connor. I want to hear her say it."

Scowling, the younger Kenway shifted his gaze toward Evie with a disturbing amount of intensity. She promptly glanced away.

"Miss Frye, it would be to your best benefit not to behave badly. This has only just begun."

"Mr. Kenway, I assure you," Evie brought her face to the cell, expressionless, "You will learn nothing from me. The Assassins will come, and it would be in your best benefit not to be here when they do."

Haytham smiled. "I admire your loyalty, however foolish it may be. Well then," he said, turning to his son, "I'll be off. Connor, I'm leaving our guest in your capable hands. I trust you to take good care of her."

Connor titled his head, looking at Evie over Haytham's shoulder. The side of his mouth quirked upwards, a phantom grin. "Of course, father."

Clapping him on the shoulder, the Grand-Master turned about and disappeared around the corner. Evie was almost tempted to call him back, but soon his fading footfalls vanished completely.

Connor approached her cell, leaning an arm against it. Evie took half a step back. He grinned at that, teeth white and brilliant in the candlelight. Turning his head to the side, Connor looked her up and down, a predator sizing up its prey. The dark red gash through his eyebrow appeared more violent in the dimness, and Evie shuddered. The blood from it was still pasted to her skin.

Minutes ticked by achingly, and she began to fidget. "Well?" Evie finally snapped.

"I have something for you."

"Oh, and what that might be?" she sneered, "A knife to stab you with?"

Smiling, Connor pulled something from his robes. Curiously, Evie's eyes followed his movements. In his hand, he held a perfectly intact white rose, its petals clean as freshly fallen snow. She watched with suspicion as he slipped it between the bars, letting it drop to the floor. It laid innocently there, so out of place.

She arched a dark eyebrow. "Am I supposed to thank you?"

"No," he smiled faintly, "Not yet."

* * *

A/N: Hi again. Sorry this chapter is so short; hopefully I can do better next time.

Reviews are gold, you know.


	3. Touch

Connor frowned in annoyance, thrumming his fingers against the dark wooden desk, lounging in the leather chair behind it. Haytham paced in front of him mid-lecture.

"Honestly Connor, how are we supposed to obtain the information if we do not interrogate the girl? She is not exactly willing to tell us on her own," Haytham shot him an exasperated look, "And get out of my chair."

Sighing, Connor removed himself from his father's beloved throne and sat on the edge of the desk instead, shuffling the papers lying there as he did so. Haytham's scowl deepened.

"By 'interrogate' you mean torture, and I know precisely how that would go. You and your little entourage would spend the better half of a month cutting, stabbing, and burning m—the Assassin, and the end result would be one very mangled, dead mess and no information." Connor picked up a crystal paperweight, tossing it from one hand to the other. Haytham's eyes followed the movements, a twitch developing in his jaw. "Besides," Connor continued, "She isn't yours to kill."

Stalking across the room, the older Templar briskly rescued the orb from Connor's grasp, relocating it to the safe position atop a nearby bookshelf. "She is not yours either," he exclaimed, "She is an Assassin; take better care to remember that."

Scratching at his jaw, Connor dared to disagree. If she belonged to anyone at all, it was indeed him; his father should take better care to remember _that._ Rising, he stood inches away from Haytham.

"I, nor anyone else, is going to harm her, but do not worry. By the time I am done, she'll tell you anything you wish to know."

That twitch in his father's jaw only seemed to be getting worse.

"Fine. Have it your way," Haytham said, "But you had better be right."

Connor smiled, moving past the Grand-Master to the door. "I usually am."

* * *

Evie was upside-down; hair, wild and long since free from its braided bun, dangling to the ground, feet placed upon the wall. Her back was on the small cot, her head hanging off the side. She was counting the cracks in the roof, and in the ones in the floor. She was oh so bored, but grateful the Templars seemed to have forgotten her existence for the time being. Although, she was a little hungry.

"Hey you."

A deep voice commandeered her attention, and her eyes drifted to the source. At her cell door, Connor stood, a serving tray in hand. Immediately tensing, she swung her feet to the floor, assuming a sitting position.

With one hand, he held the lidded tray, and with the other he began unlocking her cell. Evie's heart rate sped up, the chance to escape presenting itself. But then, reality set it. There was no way he wouldn't see that coming; it was obvious. Connor wasn't a complete moron—the only way he could seem so vulnerable was if he was faking it. Not to mention, she was in the bowels of a Templar facility, she knew nothing of the area, or how many of them there could even be lurking about. Chest-fallen, she stayed exactly where she was, fingers gripping the edge of the cot until they burnt.

Entering, he placed the key on a black cord about his neck and left the door wide open behind him. A test; a temptation. Without ceremony, he plopped himself down on the cot beside her. Evie moved over, putting what little distance she could between them.

The tray sat in his lap. "Hungry?" he asked, removing the lid. Beneath it, a bowl of stew steamed, and beside it a piece of rye bread laid. Next to that, another crisp white rose.

Seeing as how she hadn't eaten in over two days, the food was slightly appealing. Still though, she said nothing, only stared in the direction of the conspicuously open door.

Picking up the rose by the stem, he tossed it at her, and it landed in her lap.

"That's for you," he said as he picked up a spoon, digging it in the stew and taking a bite. The next spoonful he motioned to her, an eyebrow raised in question. Evie simply narrowed her eyes. Connor shrugged, returning to what was apparently his dinner.

She was annoyed. Annoyed at the situation, at his casual behavior, and especially at her growling stomach, which he no doubt heard. Finally, after what seemed like a small eternity, Connor put the lid back on the tray, held it out over the edge of the bed, and dropped it without warning.

Evie jumped hard, completely taken by surprise at the loud, abrupt crash and clang. Turning his head to face her, the Templar licked his teeth. Kept in place by the morbid curiosity of just what he might do next, she watched him watch her with something akin to rapt fascination. Her gaze kept flicking up to the freshly healed slash through his eyebrow, and, as if on cue, he raised his hand and touched it.

"It's going to scar." he said.

Without being able to help it, she spoke in response. "Yes, it is."

Connor's eyes cut into her, and he quickly reached over and grabbed her hand. He brought it to his face, where the gash was, and ran her fingers across it. She grimaced at the roughness, and knew it was no doubt still very sore. Moving her hand down to his lips, he splayed out her fingers and kissed her palm in the center with an unexpected gentleness. Disturbed by the strange act, Evie withdrew her hand, and he allowed it to slip through his grasp until he was no longer touching her.

Connor smiled like he had a secret. "The first time I saw you was in Boston, at The Green Dragon Tavern. You were in one of the rooms about to sleep for the night, and it would have been so easy to take you then, like I had been ordered," he leaned back against the cool stone wall, making himself at home, "But I didn't. you were…not what I was expecting. So, I waited until you left in the morning," he grinned over at her, "And then I attacked you in that ally. You were something else entirely."

Evie shivered, cold chills sweeping down her arms as Connor's voice took on a dreamlike intonation. He bit his lip, looking straight ahead.

"It made me feel like I was on fire. And then, you escaped, and it took me awhile to find you again, but it only made me enjoy it that much more."

"Why are you telling me this?" Evie interrupted, hands curling into fists at her sides.

Slowly, he looked at her once more, but his eyes still seemed so far away.

"So you will understand why."

Evie's face inflamed with anger, skin flushing hot. "I already know why you and your devil of a father have kidnapped me. Information. Power. Eden. It's always the same with you Templars. Get out; I'm not telling you anything."

To her mild surprise, Connor stood and retrieved the dinner tray, exiting her cell. After putting it back under lock and key, he stopped on the other side. He tried to meet her eyes, but Evie refused to look at him, gaze fixated on the floor and its numerous cracks. She noticed his dark smirk.

"Sweet dreams, little Assassin."

That night, she had no such dreams, but rather nightmares instead. In them, the Templar assumed a starring role, and when the cruel, cold morning finally rolled around, she could still feel the phantom sensations of his warm hands and cool breath on her flesh.

* * *

A/N: So, I decided this is probably taking place sometime around late November of 1774, but this may be subject to change. Connor does still have a revolution on his hands, after all.

Remember, reviews are motivation, and motivation makes for faster updates and longer chapters.

I do want to thank the wonderful guests who have reviewed (Seriously, you guys are the best) and the members who have favorited and followed. If it weren't for you amazing people who have shown interest, I wouldn't update at all. Keep it up, and so will I.


	4. Tired Hearts, Tired Hands

He was covered in blood. Hot, slick, and coppery—it was even in his mouth. Connor breathed in deeply, chest rising and falling, the smoke burning his lungs. He didn't know who they were, those who had fallen to his blades. Paper people. No personal lives. No family. Nothing to mark them, or remember them by. They were only numbers, information from his father's files, written over with a kill order.

Connor felt odd. It wasn't remorse, but rather the stark lack of it. He realized—he knew—what he had just done held some significance, that blotting out twenty lives, taking twenty souls was supposed to feel like…something. Shrugging, he wiped his tomahawk on a half burnt cloth, leaving behind a bright red stain. His hands looked like that, probably his face too, and his robes. He didn't know why he chose to wear the light blue ones this day, but he did know he wished he hadn't: they were ruined.

Connor's mood suddenly took a foul turn, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. No. He wanted to watch her sleep. These days, sleeping didn't make him feel much rested, but she, on the other hand, made him feel rather divine. Although, he had noticed she was seeming more and more fatigued herself, which was good, he supposed. Those who were exhausted were more complacent, more agreeable, and Connor hadn't forgotten the promise he had made to his father. The information was still a priority. He allowed himself a small smile; he'd simply have to try harder.

* * *

Something like panic, but not quite panic itself, was beginning to set in. It had been about four weeks, Evie assumed, and the Assassins hadn't come for her. Maybe they thought her voyage had been delayed, or worse yet, that she was still in England. A cold pit of dread was forming in her stomach; if the Assassins did not know she was in the Colonies, they certainly would not know to search for her, and that meant her stay with the Templars may be prolonged considerably.

Eventually, one of the two Brotherhoods would realize, whether it be Jacob and Henry first or Achilles Davenport first she did not know, but she had faith in all of them. Her brother had told her to write as soon as possible, and if he received no correspondence he would surely know something was amiss. The Colonial Assassins were also expecting her any day now, and when Evie did not arrive in a prompt timespan they would sent word, or even better, a search team. All she had to was wait.

Which was easier said than done.

Leaning against the wall behind her little uncomfortable bed, Evie cradled her head in her hands, trying to calm the dizziness that swirled through it. They weren't feeding her very well, and the effects were starting to make themselves known. Usually, she had only one meal per day, if the insubstantial portions could even be called a meal, and sometimes not even that. Evie also wasn't sleeping much, not between the hellish dreams that haunted her during the night and the heckling Templars who haunted her during the day. Although, despite the undernourishment, the sleep deprivation, and the too-close-for-comfort oddities of a certain Templar, it seemed they honestly weren't trying very hard for the information they so coveted. Not that Evie was complaining, but she had expected days—months even—of trauma and torture, and then when she wouldn't tell them anything they wanted to know, a painful death.

It was confusing, and her situation began to blur even more where and when Connor Kenway was involved. Placing her hands on her knees, Evie looked out over the cell floor, and a small sea of white roses looked back at her. One from him, every time he came; all for her. Some were turning brown and papery, withering away, and some were still fresh, their petals velvety and bright. She could still point out the oldest one from the rest. It laid in the darkest corner, crinkly and dull, falling apart. At the end of her cot, the most recent rose of them all sat, and Evie wrapped her fingers about the stem, bringing it to her nose. It wasn't the most fragrant, even though he had only brought it to her the day before, but that delicate scent was still faintly there.

Not for the first time, Evie wondered why he bothered bringing them to her, why he bothered to do anything that he did. He was the one who tracked her and fought her—the one who beat her; who brought her to this place. And now, the very same man, was the one who gifted her roses, white roses at that. Now he was the one who visited her almost daily, the one who sat beside her, the one who tried to touch her, and the one she feared most. She feared him because she could not predict him, and he seemed so able to predict her, to know her. It angered Evie, but she also feared him because she found herself thinking about him more often than not. The worst part, though, was the fact he seemed to know that too.

"You look tired."

Evie's eyes shot up, landing on the man himself. Instantly, she wished she hadn't—he was covered in blood. Violent dried smears and spatters decorated his face like some type of random, sadistic art, and his clothing and hands were the same. The pure rose in his grasp was a sharp contrast of coloration. She sucked in a startled breath.

"What did you do?" she couldn't keep the horror out of her voice.

He smiled, drawing closer. "Don't worry—it's no one you know."

She sat frozen as he unlocked and entered the door, somehow and for some reason shocked into silence, blinking in quick repetition.

"Well," he added as he closed the door behind him, "Not personally, anyway."

Languidly, he held the rose out to her, and she saw some of the petals were marred by crimson. Her wide green eyes flicked from his to the flower in his grasp. She did not take it from him.

His mouth twitched at the corner, a dark brow arching, her scar—the scar she put there—cutting it in half. "What's the matter? Scared of a little blood?"  
The implication was there: she was an Assassin; her own hands looked like his in theory; what's a little bit more.

A noise of incredulity bubbled from the back of her throat as Evie knocked the rose from Connor's hands. Slowly, he turned his head, following the movement.

"Huh." he said.

She glared at him with a vicious intensity as he returned his gaze to hers. Without blinking or breaking eye-contact, he leaned down until they were level, one of his hands finding purchase on her knee, the other grasping her jaw.

"That wasn't very nice."

She tried to turn away, but he forcefully yanked her skull back into place, his fingers digging in painfully.

"Go to hell." Her speech was muffled by his tight grip.

Amused, Connor's eyes moved about her face, scrutinizing every inch. Finally, they landed on her mouth. Coming closer, his lips brushed hers when he spoke. "You already know the answer to that."

And, once again, he kissed her. It tasted like death. She needed air almost immediately, but he wouldn't let her have it, and the smell of smoke, the kind that told of uncontrolled, violent fire, rolled from him into her nostrils. Connor's hands grasped too tightly, and, confused as to what to do with herself, Evie brought her own to his shoulders. He felt tense, a bound string about to snap, a predator about to pounce. His lips moved quickly, demanding and practiced, like how he fought. Kissing Connor Kenway, Evie realized, was a lot like fighting; maybe she needed to fight back. Moving her lips against his, she felt him suck in a breath, surprised by her actions. Feeling she had the upper hand, Evie sank her teeth into his bottom lip, and she tasted blood. She didn't know if it was his, or if it belonged to whoever he killed; either way, Connor pulled back.

His eyes were black, glinting and wildly looking at her. He held her face in his bloody hands, both their lungs screaming for air as they breathed heavily. Feeling dizzying, Evie leaned her forehead against Connor's, and felt his cool breath on her cheek. For a while, they stayed together like that, and when he finally left her, Evie was cold.

* * *

A/N: Once again, thank you guys so much for the reviews, the follows, and the favorites. I'm not the most confident about my writing abilities, but when I see a comment left by one of you beautiful people, it makes my heart soar. Never think I don't care because the opposite is true: there will never be enough words to describe how appreciative I am for your feedback.

So, once again, thank you amazing guests for reviewing, and a special shout out to MohawkWoman, the wonderful member who reviewed the last chapter. You are truly great!


	5. Romeo and Juliet

The twilight was bright although it was well past midnight, and if anyone asked, Connor wouldn't admit to not having seen it coming. Though in his defense, he had been thinking about her.

The Assassin flipped back nimbly, throwing a brigade of knives as he went. Growling in annoyance, the Templar took cover behind one of the crates sitting on the dock.

"What have you done with Evie Frye?"

Well, it was about time; Connor was beginning to think they would never come looking for her. Leaning against the crate, he pulled a smoke bomb from his robes. "I'm not going to play that little game where I pretend I don't know who you're talking about because yes: I do have her, and," Connor launched the bomb at the Assassin's feet, "You are not going to live to tell about it."

In the cover created by the smoke, Connor stalked closer, and, when he was close enough, drove his hidden blade into the other man's gut. Warmth gushed out over his hands, and the Assassin grasped Connor's arm, trying to study himself, clinging to life in the face of death. The smoke cleared enough for him to see into the dying man's eyes, and the glazed blue orbs bore back into his. Finally, the man—which Connor now saw was actually more of a boy—toppled backwards, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Briefly, he debated throwing the body into the water, but why bother. The Assassins already knew She was missing, and if another of theirs seemingly disappeared they would just assume the Templars had that one too. He opted to leave it there, bleeding out where it was; why not give them some closure this time. After all, they would not be getting her back, not if Connor had anything to do with it. He hoped, however childish it may be, that she wouldn't want to leave him either.

His hands were stained with the Assassin's blood, the color appearing blacker than it truly was because of the dark, and it was warm compared to the February chill. Connor found he didn't like looking at it, and felt oddly compelled to wash his hands as soon as possible. Blood had never disturbed him, not even if it was his own, and the nagging feeling at the back of his mind certainly wasn't guilt or anything close, but he knew he didn't want her to see it. It's not like she would realize it had belonged to a fellow Assassin, but he wasn't going to take any unnecessary chances, especially not now. So much progress had been made; she barely cringed away from his touch anymore. He wasn't going to lose that—or her—because some Brotherhood brat took it upon himself to commit suicide by Templar.

* * *

Evie could not believe what she had done. Kiss-ith not the Templar wasn't a fourth tenant of the Creed, but it really should have been; maybe then she would stop doing it. It wasn't as if she cared for Connor in any way: he was a sworn enemy, a Templar, the Grand-Master's son, and not to mention, the one who was holding her captive. However, if she was being completely truthful with herself, Evie could admit some might find him attractive, if they liked that dark, violent sort of charm (and she didn't; by God she didn't—Assassin's honor). She was suffering from the effects of imprisonment. That was all.

That was all. It had to be.

The familiar noises of Connor letting himself into her cell distracted her from the unsettling yet relevant thoughts. He held the signature rose in one hand and a book in the other.

Shutting the door, he smiled slightly, but it appeared false. "I got you something."

Evie tried not to appear too interested, as she didn't want to encourage any untoward actions on his part. In reality, however, she almost jumped for joy at the sight of a piece of literature. Sitting next to her, Connor placed the rose between the yellowed pages of the rather large book and handed it over to her. Not being able to resist, Evie accepted it, running her fingers over the worn leather cover and the emblazoned words on the spine.

"A Complete Works of the William Shakespeare," she read aloud. Instantly, she was surprised, eyes cutting to his. "You read poetry?"

He looked away in the direction of the door, as if fearing someone may walk in and hear the embarrassing confession. "Occasionally," he said stiffly.

She bit her lip, hiding a small smile. Appreciatively, she breathed in the scent of the pages she flipped through them, removing the rose and lying it next to her on the blanket. The words spilled out in front of Evie, her eyes drinking them in.

"I haven't read in so long. Thank you."

Caught in the moment, she didn't even realize she had thanked him, and she certainly didn't take note of his shoulder pressed against hers, but Connor did. He stared at her as she read, waiting for her to notice her mistake, waiting for her to come to her senses. But Evie was somewhere else. She wasn't a prisoner there, and there were no Assassins and no Templars, no mortal war. There was only The Complete Works of the William Shakespeare, she, and Connor.

Someone cleared their throat.

"I thought I might find you down here."

Haytham Kenway stood in the shadows outside, the candlelight flickering on his features. In the half darkness, he really did look quite a bit like his son. His back ramrod straight, the Grand-Master frowned in their direction. "We need to discuss something of great importance. Now, if you will."

Connor, but moved with visible reluctance, crossing the threshold without haste. Over the top of her book, Evie eyed Haytham wearily, and he held her gaze with an icy, intense stoicism. Finally, he glanced back to Connor.

"I shall see you in my study."

Before leaving like he had been instructed, the younger Templar looked to Evie and nodded tightly. She almost returned it.

Only after his son's footfalls faded to silence did Haytham begin to speak, holding up something she had failed to notice before. It glinted in the dancing light—a gauntlet with a broken hidden blade.

"Your presence here is costing me precious time and resources, Miss Frye, and it seems your comrades have finally taken note of your captivity. We kill one nearly every week."

Evie bit the inside of her cheek in barely controlled anger. "If you're sick of having me here, I would be more than happy to leave."

Haytham arched a dark eyebrow and titled his head. "Is that so? To me, it seems you're rather comfortable with your positon here, as long as it's beneath my son.'

Evie's mouth dropped open, skin reddening with well provoked rage.

He laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, I see. You were under the impression I did not know of your perverse little romance," shrugging carelessly, he continued, "I don't blame Connor; you do have certain desirable traits, despite your ill-founded allegiances. And as they say, the forbidden fruit tastes all the sweeter—"

"What do you want?" she growled, cutting off his despicable tirade.

He smirked. "Struck a particularly sensitive nerve, did we?"

She glowered, gripping the tome so tightly her chapped knuckles split and bled.

"Shakespeare and his pitifully sentimental love stories. Well, allow me to remind you Romeo and Juliet ended in terrible tragedy," Haytham gestured about the room, "I have no doubt this will end much worse. But, to answer your earlier question, I am here to inform you Connor shall be taking a long business trip." He smiled grimly, leaning closer. "Sleep well tonight, Evie. Tomorrow, interrogation begins, and we'll see if little girls cry as freely as they bleed."

* * *

A/N: Gosh, Haytham, ease up.

Anyway, I want to, once again, thank all you flabbergastingly amazing people for your reviews. I love reading them more than anything; they are, without a doubt, the main reason I continue to update. Your words are so kind, and knowing that you like this story so much makes me have faith in my writing. You are all so great.


	6. Changing Tides

**Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of torture and cursing.**

* * *

"What do you think of pirates, Connor?"

He had not been expecting this question. Confused, he frowned at Haytham.

"Grandfather was a pirate."

The older Kenway nodded absently, eyes drifting toward a dark wooden bookcase, an intricate model ship perched upon the top shelf. His father looked at it often, usually always when the former Edward Kenway was brought up.

"There is said to be treasure, belonging to that of the infamous William Kidd, somewhere in Cerros. It is a Mayan ruin, but based off of historical tellings we have reason to believe Eden could be involved in the so-called treasure." From his seat behind his desk, Haytham pulled open a drawer, retrieving a parchment tied with string. Reaching forward, he passed it to Connor. "Those are supposed whereabouts. Now all you have to do is locate and investigate them. I've already had a vessel prepared so you may be off today."

Connor felt a petulant protest rising. He had better things to do than chase after long lost, and possibly nonexistent, pirate booty. Instead, he accepted the bound papers with dutiful reluctance.

"Isn't there someone better suited for this task?" he asked in a last attempt, already knowing the answer.

His father smiled condescendingly. "Who better suited than my own son?"  
Standing there still, he wanted nothing more than to argue. He wanted to assure that if he went nothing would happen to her. Connor knew Haytham and the others, Charles Lee especially, had been foaming at the mouth to dig their claws into his lovely little captive.

"If it's the Assassin in the basement you're worried about, don't be. She shall be treated with respect befitted her."

That could mean many things, Connor realized. He shouldn't go. He shouldn't agree, but the set of Haytham's jaw told him he was being ordered as a subordinate and not as a son. Fixing him with a stare made of ice, Connor smiled with contempt.

"I'm sure she will be, but remember this: fool's errands do not last forever, and I do not take kindly to having my personal belongings broken behind my back."

His father stopped writing and put down his quill. His eyes narrowed to slits. "My, we are certainly a possessive one, aren't we?"

Placing his hands on the desk, Connor leaned down to meet the Grand-Master's challenging glare. "I suppose we are, but as I've said before, she's not yours to kill."

* * *

Waking was not pleasant. Evie coughed and sputtered as the frigid water splashed onto her face, going down her throat and burning down her nostrils. She tried to lunge forward, but sharp biting chains held her firmly in place. Around her, people were talking, and a lit lantern swung about in lazy, disorienting circles above her. Blinking, she whipped her head to the side, trying to figure out exactly where she was.

"And she awakens. I was worried we had killed you already." Haytham's shadow-shrouded face came into view, his grin outlined in darkness, his eyes appearing little more than empty, soulless sockets. He placed a hand on her hairline, stroking it softly. It hurt, and Evie assumed they must have hit her there to stave away any unwanted consciousness. "You seem strong, but everyone, even Assassins, can only be pushed so far."  
He backed away, strolling casually to a table aligned with the moss-ridden wall. On it laid row after row of devilishly glinting instruments, each one more wicked than the last. Almost to her relief, the Grand-Master chose to go with a thin, curved dagger ultimately simple in design.

Holding up the blade to the light, Haytham smiled. "You are a stain-glass girl, Evie Frye—lovely, but so breakable."

As he came nearer, she leaned away, but the grasping hands of the minions and the unyielding shackles kept her from going far. A cold sweat was beginning to dampen the back of her neck and the palms of her hands, but Evie liked to think she showed little fear. Her tongue was a wad of thick, dry cotton in her mouth, and she hoped it would stay that way. She would not scream for this bastard.

Eyes flicking up and down her chained form, Haytham looked as if he was picking out what sweets to buy at the store.

"Now, where to begin?" he drawled.

"What bout' the face, sir?" A particularly crude sounding man replied.

Gaze sliding downwards, the Templar shook his head. Pushing up her shirt, Haytham poised the knife's harsh tip against the center of her abdomen. Stars popped across her vision as he stabbed in, slicing down at an angle, hot blood running after the blade that set it free.

"No. I'm feeling rather artistic today."

* * *

Jacob remembered everything about the moment he received ( _stole_ ) the letter. It laid in an unopened stack of papers and mail, a neglected heap of scribbles and scribe he liked to call "The Greenie Fan club." He called it that because there were never any important, interesting, or relevant letters from people worth his time. That is, of course, until that single one with its dented envelop and tacky colonial script.

What made him really angry, though, was that they—the Colonial Brotherhood that is—sent the message to Greenie, not he, the ever dutiful brother.

 _Dear Henry Green,_ it had read, _we regret to inform you…_

And that is how the soddin' thing had begun. If he'd been a teacher, he would have given old Davenport bad marks for his piss-poor literature. After all, that's not how you tell someone their loved one has been kidnapped by Templars. Bloody fucking Templars, as always.

Jacob knew that he shouldn't have agreed to let her go to the colonies. They were threatening revolution over there, for fuck's sake. But no, she said; I'm an independent woman, she said. And now…

He hated guilt—almost hated it more than anything—but then again, that was what Evie had always made him feel best. The uncanny ability to guilt-trip your arse to Buckingham and back; she got it from their father. But Jacob would make it up to her. Evie was always the savior, the one who tidied up the messes he made as he made them. This time though, he had to step up and rescue his sister.

Looking out to the stretching dark sea, Jacob felt reassured in his resolve, the salty spray pelting his face. He and Greenie were nearly to the Colonies.

"Don't worry, Evie. I'll be there for once."

* * *

A/N: Yay! Jacob has a POV now! I think I'll continue writing some scenes from his perspective from here on out, if I can. I realize all of their sections are kind of short today, but I didn't want to flesh Evie's out because I wasn't sure how y'all felt about descriptive torture scenes. But anyway, the reviews I got for the last chapter took my breath away-you guys are the most amazing readers ever. If you're just as good this time around, I just might treat you all to a real quick update. What do you think; fair deal?

Shout-out to my two special reviewing members: MohawkWoman and Clarityclaire!


	7. Wicked Ways

**Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and cursing.**

The weather was terrible, wind whipping the sails in all directions, blowing them off course. The waves thrashed wickedly against the sides of the ship, pulling down down down. Connor felt ill-at-ease. Compared to most seafaring men, his superstitions were few, but there was something about all that dark angry water—it seemed alive. It had only been a night and a day since his voyage began, and it was off to a bad start. The crew were anxious already; the air crackled with tension. A tiny nagging voice told him something was amiss.

Not to mention, Connor felt as turbulent inside as the storm that raged outside. Gripping the wheel in his hands, fighting with it to turn, his mind drifted back to her. It always did; she was a fiery inferno, and he a moth to the flame. Connor smiled to himself. She may have been the one in hell, but he was surely the one who burnt.

The wood bit into his hands as icy shards of rain and hail pelted his face. He shouldn't have left her. He knew, he knew more than anyone, what his father was capable of. Connor was no saint: he was a devil through and through, he slaughtered and experienced nothing, he waged war like Aries among men, but he still had a heart, and it could still feel. For some unearthly reason, it chose to feel for her.

Connor turned his face to the weeping sky. "Turn it around!" he shouted above the roaring storm.

* * *

Haytham wiped his hands on a rag, turned red with her blood. Evie's breathing was labored, and her chest and side throbbed with every unfortunate inhale and exhale. Her whole body hurt. Her voice was a mere rasp from screaming—vocalizing pain was easier than not, she had realized. The shirt she wore—the one that used to be white—stuck painfully to her open wounds. She didn't know how long it had been; time didn't mean much down here.

A single exhausted, traitorous tear rolled from her right eye, slipping down her swollen cheek until Haytham caught it with his thumb, brushing it away gently. She cringed; she knew gentleness was a lie.

"You can put an end to this. All the pain will go away by simply telling me what I want to know." He touched her busted bottom lip, the salt from her tear stinging the small laceration. "Just talk." he whispered.

"You will never learn anything from me." Her throat protested against speaking, and her voice cracked.

He sighed, standing from his stooped position. Once again, he ripped the material away from her stomach, and she hissed when some of the abused skin went with it. Haytham ran the flat of his hand across the injury he'd made. Evie refused to look at it; she'd made that mistake earlier. Covering the entirety of her abdomen was a mess of deep cuts and slices, and where these lashes overlapped they formed a red, warped Templar cross. He had marked her like you would mark livestock.

"Bring the acid," he ordered, and his horrible helpers hopped to do his bidding. She bit back a sob, feeling what they were about to do already.

Someone came into the room, a man with feverish looking skin and wet looking dark hair slicked onto his forehead.

"Ah, Charles," Haytham said, "What is it?"

"Washington, sir. We need to discuss his newest grievance." He cast Evie a distasteful look, as if she were the dirt beneath his very boots.

Pausing, Haytham seemed to ponder his options. Then, having made his decision, he carefully placed the tattered, stained cloth of her shirt back over her stomach and smoothed it out.

"Well, Miss Frye, it appears we have been interrupted. We'll continue this at a later date. Take her back to the cell."

Gathering his jacket and lying it over his arm, he breezed out of the room with this Charles fellow hot on his heels. Evie's heart seized with opportunity. With them gone, that left only the filthy fool by the name of Thomas Hickey. He hummed some lecherous tune under his foul smelling breath as he undid the rusty shackles binding her bruised wrists.

The wretch laughed throatily. "Yeah, I bet he will continue this later. Boss man wants to get what his boy's been gettin'," he leered down at her, "Too bad Kenways don't much like sharin', but we'll see. We-e-e shall see."

She stayed still despite the barbs, watching beneath her lashes, waiting for the perfect moment. He released her first hand, and then started on the other one. The chain had barely fallen from her wrist when she grabbed it, clanking him soundly upside his large head. Stunned, the Templar stumbled back, clutching at the crimson spilling from his cracked temple. She jumped from the torture table, hand grasping the dagger Haytham had been cutting her up with all night. Hickey reached for the musket at his side, but she roundhouse kicked him in the chest, sending his sorry form spiraling back into the rough wall. He made a move to flee, but Evie hurled the dagger, pinning his hand to the wall. He keened like a wounded beast, and on her way to him, she picked up a needle-straight blade, running it down the table with a satisfying scraping noise and then turned it over in her hands.

"Bitch," he heaved, "Bloody little bitch."

Evie watched him squirm stoically, and, if at all possible, she was even more surprised than he when she drove the blade into his eye. Screaming out in pain, he jerked back his head, connecting it with the wall. His cries of agony did not cease.

Bringing her face close to his ear, Evie grasped the dagger stuck in his hand. "I suppose we won't see," she yanked it out, and he wailed again, "Well, you won't."

Forcefully, she stabbed him in the side of his neck, severing the jugular vein. Blood spurted out quickly before easing into a heavy, fast flow. With his freshly freed hand, Hickey pulled the knife from his neck, one good eye wide, gasping in air uselessly. As he fell to his knees and then to the floor, Evie couldn't help but stare at gushing red river. She hadn't killed in so long. Flexing her fingers experimentally, she listened to his drowning noises, watching as the light faded from his eyes, as he bled out in a crimson puddle. Her heart pounded; her lungs demanded air; her body ached all over, but she couldn't deny it any longer.

Killing him made her feel alive.

But it was messy. The highly trained Assassin in her was mortified at the inefficient manner of his death, and as she took another knife, she berated herself for the mistakes. Usually, she wasn't the one to taunt and terrorize her targets. Evie had always left that part up to her dear brother. Her heart constricted; she missed Jacob so, and Henry too. It was like she was only a shell of herself, and she wouldn't be whole again until she was reunited with the people who loved her most. Caring so much was exhausting, so as she slipped around the corner, creeping into the dingy dungeon corridor, Evie grasped the knife close and pushed all thoughts of them from her mind. She ignored the pain and the blood. Feelings had no place here, and as Connor flashed through her thoughts, she knew she needed to remember that. If given the chance and the provocation, Evie had no doubt that he wouldn't hesitate to end her life. She had to be ready to make that same choice. If not for herself, for her family.

* * *

Greenie was making him angry. They weren't even to the Colonies yet, and the man was already trying to put limitations on him. They didn't need an intricate, in-depth plan that went from A to Z; besides, Jacob had a plan: save Evie whilst slaughtering all of the Templar scum he came across. He couldn't understand why Greenie couldn't understand it; he thought his plan was pretty straightforward.

There was no time for serious deliberation. His sister, his twin—his bloody other half—was out there somewhere, no doubt in misery and pain. Jacob didn't even know if she was alive, but to keep from going bat-shit he had to continue to believe she was. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth: the mere thought of those bastards hurting _killing_ his Evie almost sent him over the edge. Guiltily, he remembered all the times he had been insolent, cruel even, towards her. She had been right annoying at the time, but Jacob realized she was simply trying to help. Without her, he would have been dead twenty times over.

He ran a hand through his hair, making it look even more disorderly than usual. Frustration was what he felt more than anything. This horrid helplessness was not something Jacob was accustomed to; if he had a problem, he either solved it with satisfying violence, or he pretended it did not exist until it truly didn't. But this…there was no escaping this.

At night before Jacob went to sleep, there was a blissful moment where it seemed like everything had only been a bad dream, and when he woke up again it would all be gone, and his sister would be back. She would complain about whatever debacle he had caused the day before, and fret pointlessly over his newest broken bone and cut. He would shrug off her concern, joke about she and Greenie's maybe/maybe not relationship, and throw around mean words no one should ever say, especially not to their own flesh and blood. Evie would make that face, that disappointed face that hurt more than anything she could ever say, and he would run off like the coward she made him feel like, not to return until it was dark.

But then the morning would come and he woke up, and Jacob couldn't describe how much he hated morning because when the nightmare doesn't end, it means you were never asleep. It means she's still gone. It means your heart is still bleeding. It means everything is fractured, and it's going to stay that way until something gives, be it your Godforsaken sanity or the Godforsaken situation.

Jacob knew that what went up always came down, but he prayed what was down went up again. He couldn't do this forever, and neither could she.

* * *

A/N: Well, a lot was going on in this chapter. Don't worry—the next one will be just as surprising. For those of you that don't like blood and violence, I apologize for that, but I'm afraid there's going to be a lot of it in this story.

I want to thank you guys from the bottom of my heart for the follows, the favorites, and especially the reviews. Life is so turbulent, but reading the comments you all leave for me is a constant source of happiness. So a million thanks.

Also, if at any time you guys have questions regarding the story, don't be afraid to shoot me a PM. I'm sorry to say I'm not on this site much anymore, save for updating and reading reviews, but I'll try to get back to you.


	8. Where The Lines Were Drawn

He should have been expecting their arrival, but pulling into the same port at the same time was absolutely ridiculous. Despite the odds, it happened nonetheless. Connor didn't even know who they were, having never seen their faces, and luckily they were afflicted with the same ignorance as he, but he wasn't stupid. Their clothing, their mannerisms—even the way they walked—it all said Assassin. Not to mention, the one with the wild hair and the loud, abrasive attitude looked similar to his Evie. He put two and two together: her twin was named Jacob Frye and that made the Indian man Henry Green. They had come to the Colonies.

Connor had barely just docked before he shot out of there, already on the back of a saddled horse, narrowly missing the Colonists who crowded the muddy streets. He knew he would get back to the facility long before they got to wherever they were going, but that did not cease his mad rush. His father had to hear of this; the Templars warned; plans devised; captives relocated to safer, more discrete locations. This he was not prepared for, and he was not going to simply let it happen either. Connor wasn't ready to let her go just yet—it was too soon, much too soon.

But as the wind whipped about his head, an infinitesimal voice of doubt arose. Who was he, it whispered harshly, to keep someone so vibrant and visceral from the world. Who was he to choose who went free and who was tucked away in a dank cell. It was because she was, Connor argued, and that is why. But that seemed like a feigned excuse even to him.

He pushed these treacherous thoughts from his mind. They were a waste of energy, a confusion of ideals, and a result of the blurry relationship he shared with her. Angrily, Connor urged his horse faster; he almost missed the simple days when being a Templar meant something sure and righteous, and being an Assassin meant you were fit only for convergence or death. Now he didn't know what it meant, or maybe it meant nothing at all, and that was all because of her. Because of her huge, deceptively innocent sea-green eyes, because of her long, nearly black hair, because of every freckle on that beautifully crafted, milky-pale face. He groaned in frustration and sulked at the realization: this girl was consuming him from the inside out, and Connor found that this pain, this state of being overwritten by someone else—it was what he wanted more than anything. Being cut open never felt so good.

* * *

Templars expressed their pain in a dramatic fashion, Evie learned. In the decrepit basement that had been her prison for four months, she had snuck, lured, and lain in wait. They came to her foolishly, falling for a quiet whistle, or a coin rolled out onto the floor. One by one, she had slaughtered all that she found. It was so messy, but she had tried, and failed, to curb the violence she felt. Evie blamed it on the torture, on the prolonged confinement, on the war that Connor had waged on her emotions, but the fact was undeniable: each time she killed it made her feel a little better. It was like being forced underwater, and when she sank the blade into a throat or a heart it was like emerging from the depths and bringing new air into her burning lungs. Evie realized it was wrong, but she wouldn't allow it to bother her then, not when freedom seemed so close.

She was upstairs now, creeping silently around the corner of the stairwell. It was lighter on the ground level, but only by the many candles lining the shelves and windowsills. Outside, it was black as an ink spill, and Evie smirked to herself. The shadows would act as precious cover; the darkness was friend to many an Assassin, and she was no different. She contemplated making her getaway by simply climbing out the window, but the first one she went over to was locked up tight. A heavy brass candleholder was firmly in her hand, mere inches away from striking out the frosty glass, when agitated voices and quick, booted footsteps stilled her. Hurriedly, she slipped behind the doorway, pressing her whole body against it as the noises grew closer. To her alarm, Evie recognized the voices: it was Haytham and that sickly looking Charles. By the continuously rising octaves of their tone, she'd wager they may have seen the little surprise she had left for them downstairs, which was inconvenient.

The injuries she suffered at his hands would cause significant issue if she tried to fight them outright. Evie had been able to easily eliminate the others by the element of surprise, and frankly, lack of skill on their part. Something told her the Templar Grand-Master and his favorite lapdog would be a different story entirely. So, staying quiet as a mouse, she prayed the deplorable duo would steer clear of her general direction.

For the first time in months, fate was kind. The two of them turned the corner, disappearing down a long hallway shrouded in shadow and surrounded by paintings of severe looking Templars of eras bygone. A jolt of excitement shot through her—the door to the outside world was right in front of her, right there across the short distance of the lobby, right there beneath the flickering light of the enormous crystal chandelier that hung from the roof. Evie could have laughed out loud and frolicked all the way there, but she settled for dashing sneakily through the open expanse. Her hand grasped the doorknob, and she felt positively giddy as she turned it. Blessedly, it opened without complaint, swinging in on a smooth track. The smile fell right off her face.

In the doorway stood Connor Kenway, apparently back from his "long" business trip and as confused as she felt annoyed. In the background, she heard Haytham and Charles returning; one of them shouting for reinforcements and something about "Watch out. She's armed and dangerous."

"Fuck." Evie swore as she attempted to slam the door in his face, but Connor caught it with a shiny black boot, barging in as she darted away.

She was midway through the parlor when a heavy unforgiving weight crashed down upon her. Evie squirmed around and kicked at Connor, working her knife about so she could stab him in the side.

A gun went off with a bang and a puff of smoke. "Hold your fire!" Haytham barked.

Connor grabbed hold of the wrist of the hand that held her weapon and twisted it at an unnatural angle until it snapped like a brittle branch. She cried out, dropping the knife. Cursing him, she turned her head away, tears of frustration building behind her eyes. She wanted to wail and scream like a child.

He looked her up and down. A deep frown etched itself onto his features. "What did you do to her?" He demanded, still covering her with his body in a fashion that could almost be described as protective.

Haytham fumed, a look incredulity contorting his face. "What did I do to her? She just murdered half my staff!"

"You hurt her," Connor accused, resolute.

His father looked about the room, eyes far unfocused and far away in his anger. "Get up," he spat, "This insanity has gone on quite long enough. It's time we put her out of my misery."  
The younger Templar blinked as if stunned. In no hurry, he rose from the floor, pulling Evie with him, a firm grip on her arm. She cradled her broken wrist to her chest.

"Now," Haytham began more calmly, clasping his hands behind his back, "Will you end her, or shall I?"

Connor stood in perfect silence, in perfect stillness, hand grasping her arm tighter and tighter.

"Choose, or I'll choose for you."

Long seconds ticked by achingly, accentuated by the loud tik tok tik tok of a dark grandfather clock setting up against the wall opposite the staircase. Evie's heart beat faster by each passing moment, and she swore she could hear Connor's hammering away as well.

"I…" he looked up, at a loss for words. He brought his gaze to hers, "I'm sorry," he said, emotion rendering his voice thin. Slowly, he took his gun from its holster. All Evie could look at was the scar slashing his eyebrow, and she wondered idly if he would put white roses on her grave too. She stared down the barrel as he pointed it at her head, the sights aligned dead-center.

"I told you, she was never yours to kill."

Evie didn't understand. He had never said anything of the sort to her; she could only imagine he was speaking to his father.

Fast as a flash of lightning, Connor shot, but when the bullet flew from the chamber, it didn't hit Evie. Instead, sparks rained down from above and a disconcerting crash shook the room as the giant chandelier fell from the impressive height. Someone screamed as it shattered to the floor, shards of sharp glass flying this way and that like shrapnel from an explosion. In all the commotion, Evie hardly realized she was being drug away by a sprinting Connor. He dashed through the open doorway, taking her along. She stumbled, wrist throbbing, feet barely able to keep up with his mad pace. She had no clue what he thought he was doing, and her mind raced—he didn't kill her; he was helping her escape, and from his own Order, from his own father.

* * *

Three days. That's how long Jacob was supposed to wait. Three days he could spend searching for his sister, but would waste riding to the Davenport Homestead. He did not come all the way to the Colonies to wait.

"Be reasonable, Jacob," Henry said like it was the easiest thing in the world, "We must unite our efforts with that of the Colonial Brotherhood. That way, we can cover more ground."

Jacob held up a hand. "No, you be reasonable, Greenie. The only way we'll cover any ground is if we actually start looking," he sneered, "I realize fieldwork is a foreign concept to the likes of you, but for those of us who fight our own battles taking action is a must."

Henry did not look amused, an eyebrow raised in opposition. Jacob looked away, muttering something about "I don't know what my sister sees in you."

Taking a calming breath, Henry decided to explain it in a different manner. "We do not know the area. In London, your plan, or rather your lack of one, may have been perfectly acceptable, but here—we're clueless about the terrain. We'll never be able to find Evie if we cannot even find something as simple as the general store."

Pointing up the street, Jacob smiled cattily, in his usual contemptuous way. "It's right there."

Sighing, Henry began walking away, heading toward the place he and the Assassins here had agreed upon meeting. From there, they would go to the Homestead, and then a suitable plan would be formulated. Soon, Evie Frye would be back where she belonged—with family and friends. Jacob would see to that, but whether he took orders from Greenie and the likes remained to be seen.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is probably riddled with mistakes and typos, as I wrote it in a little over thirty minutes—so for that, I apologize. I have no time, so I'll keep this very brief: thank you for the amazing followers, favorites, and, more than anything, the reviews. You guys make me happy, and this has probably been my favorite fanfiction to write because of you all (and please, don't fear if it takes me a while to update, I eventually will).

With love, RTB.


	9. Author's Note (Not A Goodbye Note)

Author's Note:

Hey there, guys. I know you're probably irritated, if even still following. Truthfully, I kind of lost inspiration for this story, but I am going to try to update it more. I have three chapters written as of now, so I'm going to give you a choice: I can upload them all in one swoop, or post them all in consecutive weeks of each other, so one this week, one next week, and one after that.

Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience, but when writing a story becomes an exasperating chore, updates tend to cease. In all honesty, For Every Rose of White may not ever get finished, but there WILL BE more chapters to come. Because of the future's uncertainty, anyone who wishes to do a spinoff of this story can. Mind you, a spinoff and a rip-off are two different things, so if any of you want to do this, I expect to be informed and credited.

I love you, dear readers. I love your reviews. I love the story I created. I love that any of you ever even paid attention to it in the first place. For Every Rose of White was my favorite story I had ever written, and it still is. I will try to update past the three chapters I have already done and waiting to be posted, and I may get to chapter 25, but I may only get to chapter 14. Thank you all so much for your time, reviews, favorites, and follows. I am not kidding when I say it all made me so, so, so happy. This sounds like a goodbye, but for now, it's not. I just wanted to let you guys know what's going on. Once again, a million thanks.

 _With love, RTB._


	10. There Is No Such Thing As Free

They called him crazy before: insane, mad, deranged—a raving lunatic. Connor was beginning to believe it. Every time he thought about what he had done, about _why_ , his mind tripped itself. He turned against his Order, his beliefs—his own father—and why? An Assassin.

When he put it that way, Connor felt sick to his stomach. It was almost enough to make him sit down. Maybe he could go back, let her go, pretend she escaped. Say it was a moment of weakness, a result of fever. Say it was something, anything other than the truth: that he couldn't bear to see her die. That knowing he would never get to have her, hold her, make her his own, made disownment, exile—being a _traitor_ —look like nothing. That he would rather be hunted to the ends of the earth by those he was once allied with, friends and family with, than face one single day without her in it.

Swallowing, Connor ran a hand down his face. He'd made his choice, and now there was no going back, only forward. Risking a glance at the Assassin's sleeping form, Connor gathered his thoughts. After they'd escaped the facility, he took them deep into the forest, and although horses were much faster, they were also easier to track, so he'd left them behind. At first, he could tell she was too stunned to protest the fact he was dragging her along—truth be told, so was Connor—but soon her fight returned, like he knew it inevitably would. He didn't savor having to hit her, not anymore, but she'd been sleeping peacefully ever since.

She laid against a mossy rock, curled slightly on her side. Looking her over, Connor noticed she still held her wrist close to her, protecting it from further injury even in sleep. The shirt she wore was white, or rather, it used to be. Now it was stained in blood and grime, and for that too he felt guilty—or what Connor assumed was guilt; the sensation was fairly new to him. The top rode up on her hips, exposing a pale bit of the creamy flesh of her stomach. A red line caught his eye.

Silently, Connor moved to her, and with the utmost gentleness, he raised the crimson spotted cloth. His eyes widened. Across what used to be flawless skin, an angry red Templar cross was carved. The incisions appeared to be fairly deep, and some of them still bled sluggishly. He'd wager the wounds had been there about three days, dating them to the same night he left. Connor swore beneath his breath: his father had deliberately sent him away so he could torture her.

Fists clenched, Connor rocked back onto his heels, biting his tongue to keep from voicing his displeasure. He should have known, and he supposed he did, seeing as how he'd come back. He felt pure rage, hinted with just enough remorse to make him uncomfortable (he couldn't remember a time he truly felt ashamed before having met Her). His Evie had suffered at the hands of his father, and Connor was livid—how dare Haytham _mark_ what didn't belong to him.

 _His Evie. Evie_.

Connor bounced her name around in his mind. He didn't use it much, and he'd never said it aloud. Something about saying it made him feel vulnerable, as if she'd be able to know exactly what he thought and felt if he did. It felt…intimate. But what was the worst that could happen? She was asleep…

"Evie." He whispered. To Connor's alarm, she stirred, long eyelashes fluttering softly against her freckled cheeks.

* * *

It was a kaleidoscope of emotion. When she woke up with Connor looming over her, Evie's mind leapt to fear, that instinctual feeling of recognizing danger, of sensing a predator. But that feeling went away, followed closely by a pleasant familiarity, of warmth. That too ebbed, slipping easily into an even more familiar anger.

He looked surprised to see her awake, and she surmised that was because he was the one who put her to sleep to begin with. Evie sat up, the aches and pains she'd earned over the past few days reacquainting themselves with her body. The back of her skull throbbed, a reminder and she froze.

"What twisted little game are you trying to play with me?"  
watching her closely, Connor said nothing.

"You beat me to a pulp. You kidnap me. You kiss me. You claim you're not going to hurt me, but that's all you have done."

He angled his head to the side, mouth pressed tight, eyes slightly narrowed.

Evie continued, face contorted into a furious sneer. "You leave me. You let your father torment me. You then help me escape, but only to entrap me once more. So allow me to rephrase—what the bloody hell do you want from me?"

Connor scrutinized her features, eyes dark but otherwise expressionless. Finally, just when Evie had had enough of his convenient silence, he spoke.

"I don't want anything from you, Evie. I want _you_."

She blinked, torn somewhere between surprise, horror, and incomprehension. He raised his eyebrows, awaiting a response.

"You…you cannot have me." She didn't know what she meant, she didn't know what he meant, but it was all she had for that.

Glancing down, Connor laughed, a sound of genuine amusement. His gaze came back to hers, head still tilted.

"I don't recall asking for permission."

Evie's skin flushed hot with fresh infuriation. For a moment, she couldn't even pinpoint exactly what expletive she wanted to shout at him.

"Why you pompous, atrocious—," she bit her tongue and breathed in. It was always best to approach any situation with a cool head, no matter how ludicrous. "You do not own me. I am not yours. Whatever is wrong with you, and trust you me, something surly is, I will not be a part of it.

He grinned, white teeth flashing—a lupine smile that sent shivers down her spine. "If you are not mine, then why are you still here?"

A cool head was not easy to keep about Connor Kenway. "Because you will not let me go!"

"How many have you killed? How many did you kill just at the facility alone, and while injured," he leaned forward, drawing dangerously close. Evie pressed herself against the stone behind her. "You're more than capable of fighting me—perhaps my only equal on the battlefield—but you haven't even been trying."

"Do you want me to kill you? Is that what you want?" She asked, voice shaking.

Connor cupped her cheek, his hand cold against her warm skin. "No. I'm just trying to prove that's not what you want either."

They were nose to nose, sharing the same breath. Evie felt sick to her stomach.

"I want to be free." She whispered. He placed his lips at the very edge of her mouth, kissing her softly and trailing them down her cheek, down her neck.

His voice tickled her ear. "There is no such thing as free."

She placed her hands on either side of his jaw, bringing his face back to hers, pressing their lips together. Chills danced down her arms, but it burnt wherever they touched. He tasted like a thrill; he tasted like how she felt when she killed; he tasted like so much more than that. She bit his lips and slid her tongue inside. Where Evie ended, Connor began: she was death and so was he—that's what he had always wanted her to see. He had her by the hair, but she didn't mind. Pain was simply part of it; it was part of them. He was wrong—freedom was real, but it had to be fought for and earned.

Evie ran her hands down to his waist, pulling Connor's tomahawk from its sheath at his side. She had it at his throat before their lips had even parted. One of his hands were still buried in her hair, but the she felt cold sharp steel resting on her own neck. They both breathed rampantly, knees weak but hands steady.

"Well, look at us." His voice was strained, husky and low.

"Indeed." Hers was similar.

"You won't kill me."

"How can you be so sure?"  
"Because I know you now. We're the same, and it's been proven I'm not capable of killing you."

"Do not overestimate my self-control."

He smiled, so darkly he smiled, and leaned into the blade at his throat, red dripping onto it.

"You and I—we have no self-control."

And closer still Connor came, the tomahawk cutting deeper into his flesh. Her hands were becoming slick.

"What are you doing?" Evie asked, panicked.

"Proving a point."

Her hands shook, and with a jerk she threw the weapon to the side. Evie pushed him back to the ground, and Connor laughed triumphantly even though he had virtually slit his own throat. She ripped a section of cloth from his outer robes, pressing it to the wound. Her grasp trembled as she held it there.

"Insane. You are insane." Evie muttered, concentrating at the task at hand. Her brow furrowed, and Connor liked to think that she was worried.

* * *

"This is positively moronic!" Jacob had had enough, tossing his hands into the air, eyebrows raised high onto his forehead.

The Assassin woman known as Aveline de Grandpre looked to Henry, an expression of silent judgment marking her features. The Indian smiled, a forced uncomfortable smile.

"One moment, if you do not mind, Miss Grandpre."

She frowned, checking an invisible watch. "Be my guest."

Henry took Jacob by the arm, and the younger Assassin, in a rare show of compliance, allowed himself to be led away and sat at a small table covered in indeterminate sticky substances.

"What are you doing?" Greenie whispered, voice akin to a hissy cat, as he seated himself across from Jacob.

"What am I doing? What are you doing? That woman just said we are to wait here in Boston an entire week before embarking to this magical Homestead I've heard so much about simply because they're afraid of some Templars—the very same Templars, I must remind you because you seem to have forgotten, who took Evie."

Greenie sighed, shoulders sagging, mouth downturned. "This is their Brotherhood, Jacob. We must abide by their rules."

"And she is MY sister!" Jacob roared.

Aveline glanced over wearily, torn between minding her own business and interjecting. She chose the former.

"Keep your voice down," Henry looked nervously around the decrepit hovel lovingly dubbed the Green Dragon Tavern, "You don't know who could be lurking about."

Jacob leaned forward, eyes cold and menacing. "I do not care who is lurking about. Whoever they are, let the know Jacob Frye is here, and he will happily slaughter any who stand in his way."

Aveline strolled over, taking another chair from a nearby table and seating herself at theirs. She eyed them both, genuine concern in her gaze.

"I understand where you are coming from, Monsieur Frye, and my heart goes out to you, but—"

Holding up a hand, Jacob interrupted. "I don't want your heart. I want your help."

The Creole woman scowled. Greenie cleared his throat.

"If I may—" he began a bit timidly.

"And you may not."

"Jacob, you are being exceedingly rude."

"Look," Jacob said, "I apologize if I'm stepping on your little Assassin toes, but we do not have time to go through this formal bullshit—Evie is out there somewhere, and I have to find her."

Once again, Aveline leveled him with that look, and then, after a few moments, she breathed in.

"Alright. I will help you, but Achilles will not be pleased we bypassed him in this. Do not make me regret it."

Jacob went silent, having prepared a mental argument to persuade her when she said no. It appeared Aveline's was not as strong as his sister's.

"Thanks," he said, nodding in gratitude.

Henry looked relieved the tension lifted, but still kept giving Jacob withered glares.

"Now," Jacob said, ignoring Greenie, "tell me, Aveline de Grandpre, where do we begin?"

* * *

A/N: I am so sorry for the wait, but enough with all that. I'm trying to get back into this, and the best way to do that is to go forward without dwelling on the past. Now I'm going to compromise: some people wanted the chapters spaced out, but others wanted them all at one time, so instead I'm going to upload them in consecutive days, if I can. So this one, one tomorrow, and then one the day after tomorrow. After that, I'm afraid to say I don't know when the next update will be, but I will try for it not to be too terribly long. Thank you guys so much for sticking with me.

And to MohawkWoman, the wonderful, amazing fanfictioner who sent me the most beautiful pm—thanks for the support, MW. You are the best; there's not enough words to describe my appreciation. I was really afraid everyone would be eating me alive for the wait, but you eased my fear and helped me realize this is my story, and that I shouldn't have to dread writing it. Thank you again.


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